Blind Side

by Kathryn J. Stevens

Perhaps there’s an old song on the radio. A starburst through leaves at sunset. A hare skittering across the white line. Your car turns into a tilt-whirl. Eyes on the wheel hands on the road. And there they are placing your gray ball cap at the foot of a spare wooden cross.

day’s end
shadows drip
from trees

Perhaps you’re examining a display of Honeycrisp apples. Seeking perfection. The pineapples on the next table start doing a hula. The floor turns into a glass ceiling. It’s noon but you’re seeing stars. An alarm goes off. You check your wrist. The Timex has stopped.

wind storm
on the sill a spider
loses its grip

Perhaps it’s a sweltering day. You’ve rolled out the last strip of sod. You reach for the garden hose. The pink flamingo on the neighbor’s lawn starts laughing. Looking down you discover you’re wearing a coral-snake ring. Before you can whisper 9-1-1, you’re holding a fistful of night.